Thanks to the lovely combination of hair DNA from my mother and father, I have a modified Afro. A funky, not quite full fro, nowhere close to straight, mess that I tame by twisting pieces into little curls. I’ve I usually do it fresh once every three or four days, wetting it on the days in between and re-twisting the ones gone rogue. Most of the time it looks okay, like this is a choice I’ve made that isn’t that bad. Sometimes, it looks really great; a funky “I’m freaking cool. You should like me.” hair statement. But sometimes, I look like a Cris Cross boy band gone wrong and my hair lies there, floppy and stupid and full of hate. Such is my life.
My hair has been a journey of trends – not all of them good. I’ve braided it all up in extensions several dozen times, thinking that would be my hair-answer. But then I spent too much time worried about pieces falling out in the middle of elementary school performances because, TRUE STORY, I was performing in some small school in Florida, turned around to say my line and one of my braids had slipped off my almost Afro and was lying in the aisle. Out of my mouth came my lines. In my head it sounded like this, “AHHHHHHHHHH WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? IS THAT FROM MY HEAD? WHAT THE??? PICK IT UP! PICK IT UP! PICK IT UP!” until I managed to slyly pick up the limp renegade braid and shove it into my pocket. I’ve been bald before. In fact, my normal response to a situation I can’t control is to pull out the shaver and shave off every last hair and just worry about sunscreen. Sometimes it’s looked great but most times I look like I’m in the middle of treatment. I’ve had flat tops and fades and very bad dye jobs and short hair and big hair and Mrs. Huxtable hair and all of it, every single style has been a sort of trauma. Because, no matter what I do, my hair will never be red and luscious and wavy and easy and hair commercial pretty. Ever. That is why my current look is a combination of styles I liked; twists on the top and shaved, sometimes-tapered sides. And sometimes it looks good and I should take myself out and show it off. And then sometimes, I sit on the couch recovering from a bump in my road to awesome and watch TV and read trash and run my hands through my hair, untwisting the twists, pulling out the cute curls. And then I go to bed and toss and turn because the road to awesome is exhausting and frustrating and not at all easy and I wake up groggy and grumpy and, when I go to let the dog out, and stand on the front step watching her do her business the cold morning air punches a bit of hope into me. And I stand there, while the morning folk head past the house to work and the school busses zoom past to school and I think, "life is good" - until I realized they can all see what I see when I turn to go back in the house and catch a look at my reflection in the glass. And it is not good. At all. Because the hair on the top of my head is higher than anything the Muppet Beaker could sport, with more fright than the hair on the guy from Flock of Seagulls. And there are weird bits sticking out at the back and the left side looking like someone caved my skull in with a bat. And not even pushing it down with my hand with more force than I should will move a hair out of the atmosphere and down toward my ears. It is not a good look. It is tempting on days like this, to pull the shaver and shave off all my hair. If only I knew where Husband hid the sucker. Sometimes it’s a good thing to be married to a guy who knows you very well. Sometimes, when you’re in the middle of a hair emergency and a shaver is the only answer to your pain, not so much.
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AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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